Dies Irae
by Signy1
Summary: A meditation and a memorial for the 75th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz. Sometimes heroism isn't enough. Sometimes there are questions that no one can answer. Sometimes there's just nothing to say except 'Never again.'


There was a man lying in his bedroll, trying to get some long-overdue rest; he knew he would need it the next day. He flung an arm over his eyes, but that didn't drown out the excited chatter of the other men in his unit. The war was going well; the war might be over very soon, and they were relaxed, cheerful, nearly drunk on the idea of going home. Of course, the little flask of vodka that the CO was pretending he didn't see didn't hurt either.

Just an ordinary man, a simple soldier in wartime, doing his best to sleep that night, so that when morning came, he could do his best to make it through another day. How could he possibly have known what was coming?

*.*.*.*

There was a man sitting in an underground bunker, with half his attention on the silent radio setup before him and the other half on a book he'd read a dozen times. That bunker, deep beneath a POW camp that wasn't quite what it seemed, had seen more than its share of emergencies, had heard any number of urgent messages, but on that particular night, there was nothing of the sort. Just the man at the desk, who knew better than to wish for any excitement. Silence suited him just fine. Silence meant that all was as well as possible, given the circumstances.

What, after all, could he and his friends have done, even if they had known what the morning would bring?

*.*.*.*.*

There was a guard on duty, and even he didn't really understand why. Didn't understand why he had stayed; most of his fellow soldiers had not. Didn't understand what difference his presence could possibly make. Didn't understand why his sergeant was still going through the motions of posting guards; it wasn't as if the prisoners were going to try to escape, and it wasn't as though they'd get very far if they did. If it came right down to it, he didn't understand why he had had to be here, doing… _this_… in the first place.

He didn't understand. He didn't try to understand. He followed his orders. What else could a loyal man do?

*.*.*.*.*

There was a man in a rickety barracks, poring over some much-corrected maps and plotting out his next move. Victory—and freedom!—was so close that he could almost taste it, a faint sweetness on the tip of his tongue, and he wanted more. He had a hundred, a thousand little victories to his name already, and it was never enough. Each one of them faded in importance as the next one drew near; he had been clever, and he had been brave, and he had been very, very lucky, and all that meant was that the next time out, he had to be even cleverer, even braver, and hope that he would be even luckier, too.

They were winning the war, but 'winning' was not the same as 'won.' There was so much left to do, and the fear was that there would be all too much time in which to do it. He rubbed his eyes, and forced himself to forget the bigger picture and focus on the next mission. One day at a time, that was the only way to accomplish anything, and when complications arose, as complications always did, well, he'd just have to blow up that bridge when he came to it and trust that he was making some difference.

What else could he do and still live with himself after all this was over?

*.*.*.*.*

There was a child. Filthy, emaciated, and sick. Boy? Girl? Impossible to say; his—or her—hair was cropped to the scalp, her—or his—body was nothing but dull skin stretched over tiny bones. A blue-inked number had replaced an almost forgotten name. And the sunken, hollow eyes held no surprise and no fear; the child, who had never had a chance to _be_ a child, who could not imagine a world beyond the wire and did not remember ever taking a breath that was not tainted with greasy smoke, was too accustomed to death to find it frightening, or even out of the ordinary.

When hope vanishes, even as an abstract concept, what takes its place?

*.*.*.*.*

There was a Kommandant, sitting miserably in his comfortable quarters. He was lost; there was no chance for him and he knew it. How had it come to this?

He'd tried to follow the rules, all the rules, and they had failed him; he'd believed what he was taught, clung to it with the fanatical certainty of a drowning man clutching a rope, and it had all been lies. Everything he'd done was for nothing. He had failed. Failed his superiors, failed his country, failed his family, failed his God, failed himself. Slowly, carefully, he took off his coat, with its proud burden of bright ribbons and gleaming medals, and he examined it. Those decorations showed who he was, who he had been, who he had tried to be. They belonged to a man with no future.

Was there still time to be someone else?

*.*.*.*.*

It was the night of January 26, 1945. The next morning, everything would be different. None of them knew that, of course, and maybe they were better off not knowing.

The next morning would bring so many new questions, and it wouldn't answer any of the old ones. Unbearable, impossible questions. And one in particular, the one humans have resorted to since the dawn of time. The one that has no answer.

Why, God? _Why?_

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: 'Dies Irae' translates as 'The Day of Wrath.' Auschwitz was liberated, more or less by accident, on January 27, 1945, when a group of Soviet soldiers, who had no idea it was there, just happened to stumble onto it. There wasn't too much left by then; the crematoria and gas chambers were already destroyed, as were many of the camp records. Most of the SS had already deserted, and most of the prisoners had been removed, taken deeper into German territory. A few thousand prisoners, the ones too weak or sick to even attempt the death march, remained in the camp. And yes, some of them were children. The Kommandant, Rudolf Hoss, went into hiding under an assumed name in a last-ditch attempt to escape the consequences of his service. It didn't work for very long.

The ultimate question remains unanswered.


End file.
